


Weighing the Options

by riverlight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Community: lewis_challenge, First Time, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tetsubinatu, who asked for something Hathaway-centric, with a happy ending, and further pointed to a prompt from the most recent Summer Challenge. I quote: "Hathaway comes into a lot of money. It turns out that his father had important connections [and] has left Hathaway the lot." Which of course means complications galore! So, in other words: Hathaway broods, Lewis is patient, Innocent is brisk and efficient, and eventually there's a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weighing the Options

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tetsubinatu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetsubinatu/gifts).



> Warnings for brief mention of grief and the death of a child (in the context of a case), and for mild internalised homophobia. (Is that a thing we warn for?) No other warnings apply, though of course if you'd like to email me with particular concerns, that's fine.

They've no sooner wrapped up their last case (an embezzlement scheme at Chichester College) than they get called out for the next one; James's mobile buzzes an insistent tattoo against the worktop while they're heating the leftovers of yesterday's curry.

"By all rights we'd be off now," Lewis mutters, "having just closed a case," but he's tidying up the food as he says it, so James supposes he doesn't mind as much as he's pretending.

"Sorry, sir, I know how tiring you find my company," James says, deadpan, and Lewis rolls his eyes, laughing.

"Yes, because clearly your company is what I find tiring in this situation, the dead bodies have nothing to do with it, " he grumbles, and James barks a laugh, startled, and oh, James can't help it, he can't, the way he flushes when Lewis looks at him that way.

"I'm going to hell," James declares, to cover it, "no, really, I'm going to hell. You're joking about dead bodies and I'm laughing. God is going to smite me any minute, you wait and see, I learned about it in seminary," and Lewis is laughing too, now, disbelieving and bright, and when did this happen, that he could laugh with someone about seminary? When, his inner voice wants to know, did he suddenly stop worrying about going to hell for real (the laughter in Lewis's eyes, oh, the way James's whole body prickles under his gaze) and start joking about it instead?

Lewis nearly trips on the post, which James had yet to take inside."Oi, you daft sod, stop mooning," Lewis says, and passes him the sheaf of it over the car bonnet (bill, bill, adverts, more adverts, one letter, and a handmade missing-cat flyer from his neighbour, it looks like: nothing interesting). "You're driving," Lewis says,"catch," and tosses James the keys.

James doesn't like to think about what he'll do when Lewis retires.

*

It's a missing person.

"Colette Fitzpatrick, French-born wife of a wealthy Oxford financier," James recites, some minutes later, in their office. "Reported missing when she neglected to pick up her child from its nanny and couldn't be reached. This was two days ago, and she hasn't been heard from."

When Lewis is thinking, his brow furrows. James' fingers itch, sometimes, to smooth those wrinkles with his fingertips, and it startles him how rarely such urges come at appropriate times. "No contact at all?" Lewis says, and, "hm," to James's shake of the head. "That's odd."

It is. _Vanished without a trace_ is something that happens more often in airport mystery novels than in real life. "The husband first?" James asks, Lewis nods. "Right. Then the nanny."

*

The house is posh, the neighbourhood even posher; the man who answers the door is sleek, good-looking, well-dressed, and absolutely, visibly, distraught.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick?" James says, and the man barely glances at their identification before shepherding them in. Lewis raises an eyebrow, behind his back; _Putting it on?_ he asks, silently, and James shrugs, in answer: _Too soon to tell._

Once they're settled in the front room and Lewis is slowly drawing answers out of him, though, James amends his opinion to rule out any sort of pretence; Fitzpatrick keeps on jumping out of his chair, darting over to press his ear nearly against the baby monitor perched on a side table, though James can hear it hissing reassuringly from where he's sitting, clearly on and working.

"Your daughter?" Lewis asks, gently, after the fifth or sixth time, and Fitzpatrick nods.

"Anne-Marie," he says. "She's two. She's our first. I—" and his voice cracks a little bit. "I was married before. We lost our daughter—" and he presses his fist against his mouth. "And now Colette—"

They conclude the interview shortly after that.

*

By the time they return to the station, it's far too late to make any calls, though James makes a note to himself to check into Patrick Fitzpatrick's first wife. Beside him, Lewis sighs, and knuckles his lower back. "Can we in good conscience call it a day, sir?" James says. He's tired too; they've already solved one case today, after all.

Lewis darts him a smile, and glances quickly towards the half-open blinds. This late in the day, the hall is dark and empty; Lewis grazes James's hip with his hand in passing, on his way towards the coat-rack. "Come, James," he says. "Let's go home."

Lewis drives. "Glad you put the curry away," James says, idly. "I didn't fancy cooking, this late."

"Oho, so you're coming to mine, then, are you?" Lewis says.

James darts a glance at him, suddenly alarmed. "If you don't mind," he says, but Lewis just smiles.

"Ah, it's fine, you soft lad," he says, and tugs James's hand over and rests it under his on the gearstick. (James likes the way his accent makes it nearly "ye," especially when he's tired, as he is tonight.) "You worry too much."

"Perhaps," James agrees. Lewis's smile is fond.

Though—there's something nagging at his mind, insistent, some little detail. "Is Fitzpatrick's nanny—" he begins, wondering, but no, that's not it.

"Is Fitzpatrick's nanny…what, James?" Lewis repeats, when James is silent long enough, but James just waves his hand, dismissing—there's something—

There. He catches the thought. Not Fitzpatrick's nanny at all, not the case at all. He fishes the handful of post out of his coat pocket that Lewis had handed him that afternoon, shuffles the adverts into a messy pile on the floor mat by his feet (must remember to take it in later; Lewis hates mess), tucks the missing-cat flyer back into his pocket. It's the letter that had been catching at his mind. Must have subconsciously caught his attention earlier and been percolating back there all this time. The fine paper, the deep-blue raised type: his solicitors. He tears it open.

_Dear Mr. Hathaway,_ and, written in by hand, _James,_ in neat copperplate script. _I am writing today in regards the estate of your father, Mr. James Edward Cullerton Hathaway II. As the executor of his estate, it is my duty to inform you that there were several provisions in his last will and testament that pertain to you…"_

The letter's short; James takes it in in an instant. "Robbie," he says, shocked, and Lewis steers the car over to the kerb and hits the button for the warning flashers. James doesn't have the words for this. _But he never even liked me,_ he wants to say, but that's ridiculous, and plainly irrelevant. He hands the paper to Lewis, who peers at it in the dimness for long seconds before he exhales, one sharp gust.

"Do you know what he means, here?" he asks. "This 'as the stipulated time has elapsed' and 'provisions of his will of which you were previously unaware' business?"

"No," James says. "Rather suspect I'm not going to sleep well until I find out, though."

Lewis sighs and puts the car back into gear. Doesn't say a word, either, when James plucks his pack of cigarettes from his pocket as soon as they're home and disappears out to sit in the back garden. It's a mercy, and James is grateful.

The moon's set by the time Lewis comes to fetch him. "Could see you shivering from the house," he says, and hands James the blanket that usually lives on the back of the sofa. When James makes no move to get up, he tucks himself cautiously beside him; the swing's not meant to hold two grown men, really.

"Thanks, Robbie," James says.

"Want to talk about it?" Lewis asks, after James falls silent. His trademark gentleness: _oh, Robbie,_ James thinks, and sighs.

"No," James says, because he really, truly doesn't, but tilts his head to the side to rest on Lewis's shoulder. But then, because Lewis deserves more than that, adds: "My father and I never got on."

Lewis snorts. "I'd caught that much, thanks," he says, drily. "Being a detective, and all."

When James laughs it feels shaky. He'd thought he was done with this— _emotion,_ but apparently not. "He hasn't…been in your life for quite a while now, though, am I right?" Lewis asks, clearly feeling his way, and James is grateful for his delicacy.

"That's one way of putting it," James says. "We stopped talking entirely when I was fifteen. He died when I had been at uni for a week; I'd just arrived, and had to come straight home again for the funeral."

Lewis takes this in in silence. "Rough on a young lad," he says, finally, when James doesn't continue.

There are too many things James wants to say. _Yes,_ and _I hated him,_ and _He made me hate myself,_ and—it's too much, so he says none of it.

"Right, then," Lewis says, when it becomes clear James isn't going to respond. "Is it too paternal in this particular situation if I tell you to come inside and get warm and eat your curry?"

"Yes," James says. "Quite." He gets glimpses of how Lewis must have been with his kids from time to time, on the phone with his Lyn or with people they meet working; he thinks Lewis was quite probably a very good father. "You can say it as a friend, though," he adds.

Lewis smiles. "Very well, then," he says. "As a friend. Come in and eat the bloody curry, already; it's getting cold."

*

Lewis is a friend, though he's something more, too; James hasn't got words for it.

They touch each other, his hand on Lewis's thigh or Lewis's hand, casual, laid on the back of his neck. He calls Lewis 'Robbie,' sometimes, in unguarded moments. And they kiss, angled awkwardly towards each other on the sofa or standing together for long dreamy moments in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to heat.

They haven't had sex. What James feels for him is complex, but he thinks sometimes it verges closer on love than it does on desire. When he thinks of what he wants from Lewis, it is his affection and humour and kindness he thinks of, this quiet companionship; his body is further down the list.

That it's on the list is reassuring, at least. James knows he has (though he hates the term) 'issues' with his father; that he thinks about Lewis's broad shoulders in idle moments, his competent hands, reassures him that he hasn't been trying to work that out via Lewis. Or at least (says a cynical inner voice) that's not his only motivation. He would like to touch Lewis, would like to be naked together in his big bed. Not to put too fine a point on it, he would like to have sex with Lewis; wants it quite desperately in fact.

But even if Robbie feels the same (and he does, surely, James thinks, or he wouldn't kiss him the way he does?) that's by the wayside, tonight. Lewis tosses him a pair of pyjamas, and they sleep back to back in his big bed; James falls asleep listening to the sound of his breathing.

*

The next morning, James pushes it aside; he has long experience of this, at least. The shower clears his head; the suit and tie make him feel like himself again. "Shall we, sir?" he says, when Lewis has assembled himself, and Lewis smiles. "Lead on, James," he says, so James does.

They interview the nanny first thing. Nothing suspicious at all, they both agree; she's young, well-spoken, confident, and clearly concerned about her employer, but unfortunately seems to have nothing helpful to add. "She is usually quite prompt," the girl—Sophie Aguillon is her name, an exchange student from Paris, eking out a little pocket change while she studies—says. "Always rings, if she's going to be late."

They're reduced to asking for information on live telly, as Mrs. Fitzpatrick's employers and colleagues seem mystified, too; she is by all accounts orderly and organised and cheerful, responsible, not the type to just disappear. They get nothing from the auto registry, and nothing from the French embassy; cases like this happen, sometimes, but it's frustrating. So Lewis puts on a colourful tie and goes in front of the cameras to make an appeal for information.

Which leaves them nothing to do but file the paperwork on the embezzlement scheme case, and wait. So James leaves Lewis to deal with Innocent and whatever telephone calls they might receive, and goes to see his solicitors.

*

"James," Raleigh says, when James is finally shown into his office. "Lovely to see you." Raleigh was a friend of his mother's; when James was a child, he used to come by the house, sometimes, for supper. Later he and his mother would drink martinis in the solar; James would go to bed when that happened.

"Likewise," James says.

"Right," Raleigh says. "Well, down to business; I saw the appeal on the telly, I expect you've got plenty to be going on with, I shan't take up too much of your time. The gist of the matter is, your father set up a trust in your name, about which you were to know nothing upon his death if you were a minor, which you were." He knocks some papers gently against the smooth surface of his desk to straighten them, and hands them to James. "It's not giving anything away to tell you you're a wealthy man, now, James my boy," he says, and laughs, merrily.

"I don't understand," James says, because he doesn't. "I received a settlement already—when he died—"

"Yes," Raleigh agrees, "but this is quite common practice, really, or perhaps I oughtn't say _common,_ but common enough, certainly. Parents often want to make provisions for their children, and want the children to be wise enough to handle the money appropriately, so the Law in all its wisdom allows for trusts which remain inaccessible until a trustee reaches a certain age. In this case," Raleigh says, and smiles, "thirty five." He hands James a fountain pen. "The details are all there, and I'll let you read them at your leisure. If you'd just sign here to indicate receipt—"

*

How he makes it back to the division he's uncertain; the next thing he's clear on is Robbie's concerned gaze, darting from James's face to the blue-embossed folder he's clutching and back again. Then it's Robbie handing him a cup of tea, and he hears Robbie speaking to Innocent, distantly, in the background, "personal matters, nothing that should impact upon his work and I'm happy to take up the slack, but perhaps he needs the afternoon," and Innocent's brisk acceptance, "of course, but mind you don't let it get in the way of the investigation." And Robbie must say yes because the next thing James knows he's being bustled into Robbie's car and Robbie's talking about mobiles for some reason and then they're at his flat and maybe James takes a little bit of a nap, just maybe, because that's easier, far easier, than thinking about it, or about anything at all.

When he resurfaces, Lewis is in the armchair opposite, speaking quietly into his telephone. "Yes, ma'am," he says, and shoots James a smile when he sees he's awake. "Yes, ma'am, that's right; we'll inform him immediately," he says, and snaps the phone shut. He draped a blanket over James while he was asleep.

"Got a call," he says, tapping his mobile for emphasis. (Oh, James thinks, so that's what he meant; no need to be tethered to the office if one has a mobile.) "They've got Colette Fitzpatrick in hospital; she'd been found unconscious on the kerb and brought in, but without her wallet, and apparently they weren't able to pull her records on the system."

"That's problematic," James says, and Lewis nods. "Good news, though," he adds. "I presume they heard about it on the news?"

Lewis nods. "Yes; apparently it was the description of the clothes that did it. He’ll have to go give positive identification, though, of course," he says. "The husband, I mean."

"Poor bugger," James says. "Shall we go tell him?" He can only imagine the worry Fitzpatrick must be feeling.

"You up to it, James?" Lewis asks.

"Yes, sir," he says. "Thank you." Lewis smiles, and offers his hand to pull James off the sofa.

"Any time, lad," he says, and doesn't step back when James is upright, and slides his hand round the back of James's neck and kisses him, gently, before pulling away.

*

When Fitzpatrick opens the door, he's holding himself tightly, braced against bad news; when they tell him, his face crumples and he collapses against the doorframe. Relief. "Thank god, thank god," he says, over and over, and clasps their hands; he makes no effort to wipe away his tears. "And she's okay? She's really all right?"

"She’s still unconscious, so we haven't got positive proof it's her," Lewis says, gently. "But the nurses described her exactly, and it's a medically-induced coma, which I understand is generally good news. So," he says, gesturing Mr. Fitzpatrick towards the car, "we thought you'd like to see her as soon as possible."

_What must it be like,_ James thinks, looking at Mr. Fitzpatrick's shaking hands as he grabs his coat, hearing the quaver in his voice as he rings Sophie Aguillon to ask her to keep the baby for another few hours, _what must it be like to love someone that much?_

Lewis, of course (he realises) knows that very well.

And if he's perfectly honest with himself, is precisely what himself wants, isn't it?

*

They wrap up the case; Innocent rings up the local television station to thank them for their assistance, and promises she'll speak to one of her contacts about the apparent lack of integration between the French Sécurité Sociale and British National Insurance systems. "Good job, the both of you," she says.

"Thank you, ma'am," they say, at the same time, and she smiles.

"Now, I believe you're off the duty roster for the next few days, so if you'll kindly get out of my division," she says, slapping shut the file folder with their case notes. "Robbie, perhaps if you'll hand this to Archives on your way out?" She hands him the folder. "And, James, if I could just have a minute—"

"Ma'am?" James asks, as Lewis ducks out of her office.

"I understand from Inspector Lewis that you had some business that needed taking care of," she says, and it's her formal Chief Superintendent voice. "I'm happy to give you what time you need."

"Thank you, ma'am," James says, because really, what else is there to say?

"You've done well here, James," she says, briskly. "As your supervisor I'd like to ensure that I keep you in good working order."

"Ma'am," James says. As so often is the case, he isn't really required to participate in these conversations.

"That's all, Sergeant," she says, smiling. "Dismissed."

*

He takes Lewis back to his flat and cooks him dinner; there's only so much takeaway a man should be required to stomach. Pasta and sauce, nothing fancy, but he opens a bottle of wine for himself and picks up some lager for Robbie: they're off duty for the week-end.

"Come to bed," he says to Robbie, later, rugby match over and glasses drained; Robbie gives him a long look and toes his shoes off. There's the newly-normal awkwardness as they dance round each other in the loo, but finally they're face-to-face in the dark. He can just see the gleam of Robbie's eyes, open and looking at him from a foot away.

The problem isn't so much that he inherited money from his father in particular, he's been realising, so much as that he's inherited money at all. Raleigh wasn't wrong; it's not enough that he's suddenly one of the idle rich, but it's enough that he could afford to not work for a time, if he chose. Enough that if Lewis retires (as he's been discussing, more and more lately) James might not have to stay. It's a—complication.

"All right, then, James?" Robbie says, quietly.

"Mm," James says, because he's not sure. How is he supposed to tell Robbie what he's thinking about; how his he supposed to say _My father, whom I hated, apparently left me piles of money, even though he despised me for being a nancy-boy?_ That's not really the problem (though of course it is _a_ problem and James will, he knows, have to deal with it at some point in the future): rather it's that he has, in the past few days, discovered that he has rather more options than he had previously. And deciding what he does want had been hard enough before.

"I—" he says, meaning to spit it out somehow; _I inherited money from my father and it's a bit of a shock,_ or _I've been thinking about what I'll do when you retire,_ and finds himself asking, "Why haven't we had sex?"

Robbie jerks a little bit, startled. James flushes. "I'm sorry, don't answer that; I don't mean to pressure you," he says.

Robbie snorts a little laugh and pulls him closer when he jerks to pull away. _Ah, Robbie,_ James thinks, and lets himself be pulled; it's not as if he doesn't want it, after all. "Well," Robbie says, and now he's murmuring it from so close that James can feel the warm puff of his breath. "Not the conversation I thought we were going to have."

"I'm sorry," James says again, but Robbie leans in to kiss him.

"It's fine, James," he says. "Just: why do _you_ think we haven't?" He slides his free hand round the back of James's neck and pulls him close; James feels himself relaxing.

"I suppose—" he says, and then stops. Robbie has leaned down and is kissing his neck and it feels good. He can't quite think straight. "I suppose," he says, "I thought you didn't want to, or weren't sure."

"Ah," Robbie murmurs. "I thought it might be something like that." He writhes, a bit, shifting position in the bed, and when he settles again he's got his free arm tucked under James's body and has pulled them flush together. "Because you're a man?" he says.

Which of course had been why. Robbie had been married. "You were married," James points out, though it feels strange to say it in the darkness like this, with the scent of his body and Robbie's mixing in the air, the two of them twined together in the warmth under the bedclothes, intimate.

"Yes," Robbie says, and oh, there's so much in his tone: sadness and love and joy and acceptance and more that James can't read. James supposes there probably always will be. "I did say I wanted it, though," Robbie goes on.

And: _well,_ James thinks, because he did, didn't he? Said _I've never done it before, but I want it, James,_ and then, to make it clear, _I want you._ And James had said something that he can't remember but recalls as being inane and vaguely embarrassing but must have indicated his willingness, and they'd kissed on the couch (the scrape of Robbie's stubble, the way he'd smiled into James's mouth) until James's mobile rang and they had to rush off, flushed of face, to work.

_Oh,_ James thinks. "I didn't—" _realise, understand, believe it,_ he thinks but doesn't say, but maybe Robbie gets it anyway, because he smiles, and kisses him again.

"I've been waiting for you to decide what you wanted, you daft thing," Robbie says.

"Oh," James says, again. And since that is as clear an invitation as he's ever heard from Robbie, he puts thoughts of anything else out of his mind, and says "I want to touch you, then, may I touch you?" and Robbie laughs and says "God, James, _please."_ And then Robbie's kissing him until he's breathless and feels like he's floating, and James touches him in all the places he's been thinking about, collarbone and ribcage and the rough hair on the inside of his thigh, and then Robbie strokes his arse and James touches his prick (soft and small in his hands, at first, and oh, it makes him feel so tender, holding Robbie this way) and feels him lengthen and harden as he pushes into the circle of James's fingers and touches James in turn, and it's the way he sounds, gasping in pleasure, that tips James over the edge, orgasm fizzing out to his fingertips, electric.

"Christ, James," Robbie says, some minutes later. James smiles at that, of course he’s smiling, how can he help it, and he means it to be secret but Lewis sees. "Oy, you, stop that," he says, but James feels too good, he's wanted this too long.

"Can't," he says, and, to make Robbie laugh, "sir," and really, he thinks Robbie's laugh is perhaps the most wonderful thing he's ever heard. And maybe it's not the most romantic thing he could say after sex, but perhaps Robbie will forgive him. "I might not stay a policeman, after you retire," he says, and Robbie doesn't seem startled, just pulls him closer, arranges them so James is pressed all along his body, skin to skin.

"No?" he says. "This to do with that letter, the other day?"

James nods, head tucked against Robbie's shoulder. "Not sure I'll leave, either," he says. "Just—weighing the options."

"Well," Robbie says, and strokes his free hand down James's back. "You know, I hope, that I think you're a brilliant copper?"

"No," James says, because he didn't; he feels almost as warmed by that as he does by the obvious affection in Robbie's touch. "You're just saying that because of the sex," he says. "Sir."

Robbie laughs a bit. "Tosser," he says, but it's affectionate. "I'm just saying. I have faith you'll be equally good at whatever you choose to do."

"Thank you," James says again. It feels inadequate. He tilts his head, kisses the soft skin below Robbie's ear, hears him sigh. "Robbie," he says, before he can lose his courage. You're not supposed to say this during sex, he knows, but: how can he not feel it, he wonders, and, feeling it, how can he not say it? "I'm a bit in love with you," he says. He can hear it in his tone, the way it sounds. Confessional.

"Ah, James," Robbie says, and oh, God, is that good or bad? James can't tell. His voice is rough, but maybe that's just the sex?

"Robbie—" he says, and makes to pull away, but Robbie catches him, pulls him back, settles him firmly so he's lying half on top of Robbie's body.

"I'm _glad,_ James," he says. "I never thought I'd get this again, is all." He's smiling; James can feel the shift of it against his cheek.

"Oh," James says. Because he's glad, too.

"Is that a good 'oh'?" Robbie murmurs, into his hair.

"Quite," James says. He feels peculiarly light and happy. Perhaps just the sex? Perhaps it's happiness. Strange.

"Good, then," Robbie says, and smacks James's arse. "So that's decided. Now, let me up to fetch a flannel, you lout." James does.

*

James wakes in the morning to sun streaming in the windowpanes, and to a single, startling thought: that, whatever else the future holds, he's pretty sure they decided last night to actually make a go of it, even if the words were never said.

But as he's confronted with the prospect of a free week-end (his mobile's silent on the bedside table) and Robbie Lewis is naked in his bed, James thinks perhaps that's enough to be going on with.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Also: thanks to dsudis for the beta; I know I’ve told you before, dear heart, but it’s worth saying again: you always catch my stupid errors, and I’m truly grateful!


End file.
